


inside out

by honey_wheeler



Category: Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes her out on his motorbike all the time. There are other things they could do, he says, but she likes riding behind him, the wind tearing at her like a living thing. She likes the way the road flattens and pulls when they start up a hill that seemed so steep a moment ago. There’s never anything new or unexpected after the crest, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inside out

Wind is different here. She's used to the disturbance of air a lightcycle creates or the gust of a landing ship, cold and curiously static. The wind here is alive, springing up all on its own, swooping unpredictably; it couldn't feel more different on her skin. The light's different too. Everything where she's from lights up from the inside. This light is all inside out and even though she knows about the sun, it still seems to come from everywhere at once. All the books she's read make more sense now that she's here.

He takes her out on his motorbike all the time. There are other things they could do, he says, but she likes riding behind him, the wind tearing at her like a living thing. She likes the way the road flattens and pulls when they start up a hill that seemed so steep a moment ago. There’s never anything new or unexpected after the crest, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t be. She likes to look out over the hills when they stop, imagining what might be behind each one.

"Quorra." He's calling her. She likes his voice, Sam's voice. It's alive the same way the wind is. The word 'organic' forms in Quorra's mind. It's a thick word, its edges fuzzing into tendrils. That's how his voice looks when she pictures it. She files these observations away to think of later, when she's alone and can put them together and study them. Now she turns her face away from the wind and looks at him, questioning, receptive.

"You were a million miles away," he says with a crooked little smile, crooked like that one tooth of his, the one he always runs his tongue over when he's deep in thought.

"But I was right here," she tells him. He makes a face, like he's debating whether to explain something - a look she sees often - before he decides against it. She thinks again about the wind, how it’s so different here, and wonder if the same is true of her too. She turns to Sam. "Am I different out here?" she asks. “Different than how I was on the grid.”

"A little," he says. "Quieter. Like you're busy figuring everything out."

"There is much to figure out," she allows.

"We have time," he tells her. We. She likes that too.


End file.
